


when we go up, in fire and flames

by kerry_shawcross



Series: tell me something true [3]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Avengers AU, M/M, a whole lot of just lawrence remembering adam, adam is cap, aka the one where larr is the winter soldier, and a bit of adam/lawrence if u squint, and james is black widow (widowmaker)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:37:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9125995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerry_shawcross/pseuds/kerry_shawcross
Summary: What he doesn’t ever remember is why he remembers Kovic so intimately.He remembers Kovic getting into alley fights all the time, usually over stupider things--someone picking on a girl or not “being respectful” during enlistment ads in theatres.(What he doesn’t remember: the way he used to touch Kovic’s bruises so gently, so patiently. The way he used to sigh when bandaging him up;fucking Kovic.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> mostly a "winter soldier lawrence is emo and remembers things" kind of fic.

He thinks he remembers him. The brown of his eyes; the slope of his shoulders. Strands of hair falling over a furrowed brow.

Sonntag used to ask to be wiped every time he remembered something. It was… easier that way. Didn’t hurt as much--or so he thought.

But he can’t go back. They’ll wipe him again, or worse. He can’t go back.

Kovic will just come find him again.

Sonntag pins his eyes to Kovic’s face again. He sees the bruises and cuts on Kovic he left, feels a little sick to his stomach. Sonntag doesn’t know why, but it still makes him feel as if he were drowned in ice water.

He doesn’t have much time--the river water clings to his clothes and weighs him down.

For a brief moment, Sonntag almost admits to himself that Kovic meant something to him. Why else would he save him?

He looks at Kovic one last time. The bruises, the scars. (He won’t remember the smile until a week and a half later, mid-nightmare, half drenched in sweat.)

_I know you,_ Sonntag thinks, and then, _Adam_.

He walks away.

  
\--

  
One week later, a memory in the form of Kovic’s face on a poster. The words _MACHINIMA INITIATIVE_ jolt back into Sonntag’s mind.

Sonntag remembers a few things about his time spent with Kovic; dusty as if they weren’t his memories: Kovic-- _Adam_ \--is always standing just ahead of Sonntag, out of arm's reach. He’s smiling. He says something to Sonntag; a nervous laugh bubbles up his chest and bursts from his throat.

Sonntag also remembers a train. Falling. Cold. He tries to push these memories out of his mind.

Sonntag wakes up on top of damp motel sheets, to the sound of a gunshot and a train whistle in his ears. He brushes his hair out of his eyes and resists throwing up from the nausea caused by his arm.

Sonntag remembers all this, and then remembers that Kovic had taken every blow that the former had thrown at him.

People don’t do that if they don’t care about someone. If they don’t miss them.

He rubs at the thick ligaments on his shoulder, wonders if Kovic ever hurts, but then again.

All heroes do.

\--

The memories start to come back. Bit by bit, fragment by fragment. When there are names, there are never faces to match them to, and when there are faces, there are never names. The memories are slivers of senses.

The creak of the hardwood floors he slept on. The smell of the rain. The cat’s purrs, in time with the apartment radiator’s lullabies.

And Kovic.

(- _-the warmth from Kovic’s hand / Kovic’s laugh / Kovic’s smile / the sound of Kovic’s soft breaths through the apartment they shared when he slept / the way Kovic’s hair looked in the rain_ \--)

Except he wasn’t Kovic then. He was--

Sonntag doesn’t remember the ops. Perhaps it’s better that way.

He tries not to focus on that one memory, always sitting in the back of his blood laden brain--a train running through a mountainous range. Treacherous heights. Someone-- _Kovic_?--screaming his name.

Instead: the weight of the knife. The sharp, never ending pain when they wiped him clean. The ache in his chest that didn’t seem to go away.

Sonntag finally knows why regular people don’t have their painful memories wiped--so they can learn from their mistakes. So they can grow.

(-- _cause I’m with you / til the end of the line / Adam I’m with you / til the end of the line Adam / even in the future it is still you and me Adam / Adam Adam Adam Adam_ \--)

And remember.

\--

He remembers Willems. Why does he remember Willems?

It’s been two weeks. No men in black have kicked down Sonntag’s door, neither have any men in white.

Neither has Kovic, for that matter. Not that it bothers him. Not that he cares.

Sonntag stops sleeping in motels when the man he stole the credit card from cancels it; instead he moves to squatting in nicer apartments and sleeping on the floor of the desolate ones.

He buys food with begging money, hitchhiking when he can. Nothing gourmet, buthe feels like he's done this before. (When had he done this before?) He tries out the name Lawrence for a while, but it doesn’t seem to jog any memories except for ones heavily involving Kovic--not that Sonntag has a problem with this.

He still helps old ladies cross the street, and stops to pet dogs. A regular model civilian who just happens to not pay taxes because he technically doesn’t exist to the government.

_Didn’t_. Sonntag still sees news stories detailing an assailant with a metal arm. He’s hoping they’ll die down soon.

He remembers Willems. His brain supplies him with that much, at the very least. More importantly: Willems’ codename. Willems’ voice. Willems’ eyes. Why? It took two weeks to remember Kovic, why did it take--

\--he’s in the middle of a room sparring hand-to-hand with Willems, rehearsed and practiced strikes, metal against flesh; watchful eyes observing them, never once breaking eye contact until Willems sweeps Sonntag’s legs from under him--

\--and Sonntag has his flesh hand entwined in Willems as they walk down a room filled with people dressed to the nines, Willems with a sly smile on his face and a red tie on top of a black dress shirt, Willems whispering about wolves and boys in Russian into his ear--

\--and then suddenly Sonntag is stitching up a wound on Willems’ shoulder, (too much bare skin and warm flesh), Willems’ breath hot against Sonntag’s shoulder, telling him to hold still, the crimson thick and sticky through silver fingers and slowing down Sonntag’s work; they’re too _close_ this can’t be--

\--oh.

He remembers Willems.

He’s relieved, but he’s not sure why.

\--

What he doesn’t ever remember is why he remembers Kovic so intimately.

He remembers Kovic getting into alley fights all the time, usually over stupider things--someone picking on a girl or not “being respectful” during enlistment ads in theatres.

(What he doesn’t remember: the way he used to touch Kovic’s bruises so gently, so patiently. The way he used to sigh when bandaging him up; _fucking Kovic_.)

He remembers Kovic needing a place to sleep, freezing half to death despite three layers of flimsy clothing, but not that he and Kovic traveled together. Remembers that Kovic told him that he didn’t need to be with him, but not that he’d insisted that friends stick together.

He doesn’t remember clapping a hand on Kovic’s shoulder, his own voice: _‘cause I’m with you, Adam_.

He remembers enlisting for the army. Kovic was smaller, back then, but happier. It makes him sad to remember that for some reason. Why?

Somewhere, distantly, Kovic’s voice again, during the fight: _til the end of the line, Larr. Always_. (When had this happened before?)

Fucking _Kovic_.

\--

Coney Island is a memory that feels like it shouldn’t belong to him; there’s nothing but thick nostalgia sitting on top of his chest when he imagines it. A young Kovic, a young him. Dancing down the boardwalk touched by nothing but the lights.

Young Lawrence. As if there were ever a time where Sonntag was young. As if, there was ever a time where Sonntag danced.

Sonntag tugs his coat closer to him. The cold shouldn’t bother him but now it threatens to tear the breath from his throat. He feels fucked up, fucked _over_.

He can almost smell the ocean.

\--

(Kovic used to call him _Larr_ back then.

He’s the only one left who even knows his real name.)

\--

When someone finally shows up, it’s Kovic. He’s not wearing his uniform, but his shield is still tucked on his back, visible. Like a reminder that even here, they’re not alone.

“Lawrence,” is a whisper through the hardwood floors, like a secret shared between friends.

Suddenly, they’re young again. Adam’s standing in front of him on the beach. He doesn’t look so tired. He’s smiling--it looks good on his face. Adam has his arm thrown over Sonntag’s shoulder. They’re laughing; Sonntag can hear seagulls screeching, waves crashing. Sonntag can almost feel the sand between his toes, can almost feel the sunshine on his face--

“Lawrence?”

The voice at the back of his head, except now it’s coming from a different corner of the dark apartment. It’s… different than in his memories. Older. Worn. Broken.

“Do you remember me?”

He knows Kovic so intimately, from fragments of memories, from dreams. He knows Kovic’s smile, his hands, his laugh, his eyes, his voice. He knows that Kovic used to be small and thin; that he wore newspapers around his shoes. He knows that Kovic and him used to lay together on cold nights when the heat wasn’t enough, he knows that Kovic only listens to swing music and never learned how to dance. He _knows_ Kovic, _he_ knows Kovic, he knows _Kovic_.

“Adam,” he tries it out, finally, carefully. He sounds like he doesn’t believe himself. It sounds like the truth. It _is_ the truth.

Adam smiles--familiar and like an old friend--and Lawrence smiles back. His chest floods with relief.

“You need to come with me,” Adam says at last. He stretches out a hand, bridging the gap between them. “Please, Lawrence.”

_I remember you_ , Sonntag thinks, and Lawrence agrees.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey!! if you liked this, be sure to let me know! i'm working on the bigger series (currently at like 12k words and nowhere near finished #rip)
> 
> happy holidays, and if ur not reading this during a holiday season, have an awesome week! :)


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